


visa fraud's the way to love

by deleuze



Series: a chance proposal. [1]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, a proposal au i spent way 2 much time on, also have mercy it's literally been 4 years since i wrote actual prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deleuze/pseuds/deleuze
Summary: “As a matter of fact, Irving, I’m marrying. We’ll have to push up the due date for a bit, with the whole Visa affair, don’t we, darling?” Miranda, though her voice was syrupy, gave her that same weird intent look like before. She hadn’t the slightest about what it meant.Andy Sachs grudgingly agrees to a marriage with her boss. Things don't play out the way they're supposed to.





	1. one: what the hell, miranda priestly?

**One: what the hell, Miranda Priestly?**

Four months after Paris, Doug began talking to her again. Two months later, she phoned Lily for the first time in _ weeks_. At that moment, Andy decided a life without friends wasn’t worth it, even if she still thought Nate was a childish prick. Doug was still sufficiently impressed by Miranda Priestly to befriend Andy again - she might’ve introduced him to Nigel at some point - and while what had happened between her and Lily still hadn’t been mended yet, they at least _ talked_. 

Emily began talking to her again when the cast was gone. Only fair. Nigel, once he got over himself - which was rather quick because in five months, the whole James Holt enterprise looked doomed - murmured a while later a “Welcome to the club of people Miranda can marginally stand, Six.”

Andy didn’t know what to think of that. 

And indeed, Miranda could - if only marginally so - stand her. One day she came into the office and when Andy said as chipper as she could at 8 AM, “Good morning, Miranda! Your coffee is on your desk!”, she swore Miranda muttered a ‘morning’ back. Andy had been sitting slack-jawed behind her desk until Emily came back from her toilet break, and nearly missed the phone call from the Lagerfeld people, which resulted in Emily throwing a wad of paper at her head. She’d laughed and taken the phone. “Hello, Miranda Priestly’s office?”

After the Harry Potter incident, the twins weren’t complete brats anymore - especially because Andy was _ really _ good at telling them apart - and was now on her guard. Before she went into the townhouse, Andy took off her heels, checked the floor for booby traps, looked if the doorknobs had glue on them, and pointedly ignored the twins and their ‘offers’ to ‘help’. 

One day, the twins dropped a parachute with a barbie holding a piece of white paper. A surrender? Andy looked them dead in the eye before leaving and raised an eyebrow. Next day, she left a copy of Erich Kastner’s _ Lottie and Lisa _on the table, knowing full well the twins would come down and get it. 

“It’s way better than the movie,” Caroline yelled a week later down the stairs, “Thanks, _ Andrea_!” Of course they were capable of imitating how their mom had said _ Andrea_. “Do you have more books?” 

“Don’t worry,” Cassidy called, when she had frowned and mouthed _ Miranda_. “Mom won’t mind. You’re like, her only friend!” Andy had stared at them, but true to her word, left every week a new book on the counter, and took the one the twins had finished home. 

So, six months after Nate left, life was going pretty well for Andrea Sachs. Even better than before, especially on the good days. Another seven months later, it all came crashing down. 

The day began relatively uneventful, with Andy slipping in a quick phone call to her father about how she was excited to come over to Ohio for Christmas and New Year’s between two emails. Afterwards, Emily told her in that prissy British voice of hers - Andy was sure she was laying it on extra thick just for her - that she was lucky Miranda wasn’t in yet. 

At 9.15 AM, Miranda breezed in.  
At 11.10 AM, disaster struck.  
At 11.30 AM, Miranda had an emergency appointment with her lawyer, Arthur ‘Archie’ Ellis.

Andy knew it wouldn’t be good, because Arthur had called her twenty minutes before the appointment, mumbling with a good amount of fear in his voice that Miranda’s visa application had been denied. She wailed when she saw Nigel coming up, told him the whole story, and he spit out his water - almost on her keyboard, mind you - and then Emily said, “Bloody hell, can’t you two stay quiet?”

Finally Andy managed to say that Miranda’s Visa application was denied, and Emily’s skin tone now matched that of a sheet. “If _ she’ _s deported…” 

“Then we’re all done for,” Nigel finished flatly. 

“I’m not telling her,” Andy immediately said.  
“Shan’t!” Emily said at the same moment, after which they both looked at Nigel.  
“No.” He rubbed his glasses for good measure, and then left, leaving Andy and Emily to a glare contest.

Finally Andy said, “Fine, I’ll do it, but you do the coffee run for the next month.” She received a brisk nod in return, and then, bracing herself for the imminent storm, entered Miranda’s office, which, at the moment, seemed more like a dragon’s lair surrounded by lava and other scary props, rather than the pristine glass cubicle it actually was.

Miranda raised an eyebrow.  
Andy gulped.

“Your lawyer, mr. Ellis has called. Your Visa application has been denied. I’ve scheduled an emergency meeting at 11.30 AM.” A sharp intake of air. Andy didn’t really care about God, Jesus or anyone else but at that moment, she fiercely hoped that whoever was up there, had mercy on her.

“Make sure you are there. That’s all.”

She fled the lair and got Miranda’s coat and bag ready and made sure to message Roy because exactly two minutes later, Miranda breezed out. “Coat. Bag.” If Miranda was impressed by her readiness, she said nothing of it. 

Roy was waiting for them, and looked antsy. Andy gave him an apologetic glance, but was soon saved from awkward silences, because her phone lighted up, displaying Emily on the screen. “Em?”

“Don’t bloody Em me. Irv just walked in and told me he wanted to see Miranda. I managed to deflect him by saying she had an appointment, _ and then he just laughed, saying she’s quick to go to her lawyer. _” Andy paled. Of course. Miranda might have won the battle in Paris, but not the war. “Thanks, Em.”

“Don’t bloody Em me.”  
“Bye, Em.”  
“Bollocks.” Then the line went dead and she turned to Miranda. “Mr. Ravitz wants to see you…” She hesitated, and only when Miranda raised an eyebrow, she added, “Em...ily thinks he’s got to do something with it.” 

Miranda merely ground her jaw and looked some more out of the window. 

Luckily for the three of them, Arthur Ellis’ office came into view, and Miranda barged out of the car, doing her impossible stiletto-powerwalk, that left Andy struggling to catch up with her. Arthur Ellis, as turned out, was a smarmy forty-something who was _ terrified _ of Miranda Priestly, but also reminded Andy of Christian Thompson - the greatest lapse in her judgement - a little too much. 

“Arthur,” Miranda said sweetly, “stop staring at Andrea’s cleavage. It’s unbecoming for a man of your age.” Andy’s eyes bulged. Arthur went red. Miranda just made a dismissive gesture and said, “Please tell me how this _ dreadful _little situation occurred and what can be done about it.”

“Erm, not much, Ms. Priestly.” Her nostrils flared at the mention of _ Ms. Priestly_. Classic mistake, Andy thought, satisfied with herself. “You promised not to leave the country, but you’ve been to Paris, then to Milan.”

“_Of course _I went to Paris and Milan, Arthur.” 

“Apparently you haven’t submitted all of the correct paperwork as well - and they can prove it - but there’s nothing to be done about it now.” By now, Arthur looked like he was going to faint any moment. Andy suddenly felt a pair of stony blue eyes stare at her. She was _ so _dead. Luckily for her, he didn’t stop talking. “We could prepare to contest and reapply, but that can only happen next year, so you’ll have to be deported. Aside from that… there’s not much we can do. Deportation would take place between mid-january to february. ”

In the car, Miranda murmured a little “_ Well? _ ” that scared the living daylights out of Andy. Well, she wasn’t _ that _ scared of Miranda anymore, but that flesh-melting look still managed to make her feel uncomfortable. “I swear we haven’t received any emails or post about it. Maybe mr. Ra-”

“Irving. Of course.” Miranda sniffed. Back at Runway, she vanished into her office almost immediately, probably stewing.

“How is she?” Andy made a face in reply and Emily groaned, slamming her forehead on the desk. 

Reprieve didn’t last long though, because immediately, the snit Miranda had worked herself in, became clear to both of them. “RVSP yes to the Prada luncheon, but have my driver waiting at 12.30. Inform Galliano I want more samples. Collect the advertisers’ samples as well. Get someone on editorial to do research on philosophers. Tell Nigel to reshoot the Dries Van Noten spread, but have Demarchelier do it instead of that buffoon the Art department hired. Remind Jocelyn that she’s here to innovate, not rehash stale ideas. Emily, fire anyone who suggests _ Valentine _ or _ love _ for our February issue on the spot, Jennifer and Edward you can already fire as well - incompetence is not tolerated - and, _ Andrea _, call Arthur for the necessary paperwork regarding marriage Visas. That’s all.”

“Yes, Miranda.” Andy looked at Emily once Miranda was gone and said, “Good luck with Ego Ed.”

“About bloody time he got fired.” Andy chuckled softly while dialling Smarmy Archie and readying herself for an afternoon of errands. Once she got Smarmy Archie on the line, he proceeded to explain that unless Miranda had an eligible partner, Visa fraud was a serious felony and that the sponsor for Miranda’s US Visa could face at least a few years in prison along with a heavy fine.

She mulled about that for a while while texting Nigel - as far as she knew, there hadn’t been _ anyone _ at all after Stephen.

>> SIX: m wants to reshoot the dvn spread w patrick  
>> NIGE: now??  
>> SIX: yea  
>> NIGE: this is bc of her visa isnt it?  
>> SIX: yup

Andy then went into Miranda’s office, telling her that Smar- mr. Ellis said Visa fraud wasn’t going to work out. Miranda merely muttered something about getting a Green card anyway, all while giving Andy a weird once-over before shooing her outside. 

By five PM, Irv was there again, waltzing straight into Miranda’s office before Andy could stop him. She moaned, promptly heard “_Andrea!_” and cursed her existence before dragging herself inside where she was faced with the following image: Miranda Priestly in 4.7 inch Louboutin Pigalles, towering over Irving ‘Irv’ Ravitz, who had just challenged said Editor-in-chief to a glaring contest. 

Miranda won, of course.

Irv began with fake chivalry in his voice that sounded more like glee. “Seeing your Visa application has been denied, Miranda, we impossibly can let you stay here. I’m sorry. Carine Roitfeld has agreed to take over business during your deportation.” Miranda _ hated _her even more than freesias or Jacqueline Follet. Andy wished she was somewhere else.

“As a matter of fact, _ Irving_, I’m marrying. We’ll have to push up the due date for a bit, with the whole Visa affair, don’t we, darling?” Miranda, though her voice was syrupy, gave her that same weird intent look like before. She hadn’t the slightest about what it meant.

When Irv said, “To who?” Andy got a horrible feeling in her stomach.  
“Whom, Irving_, _ and she’s standing right behind you.” Miranda seemed triumphant, even as Irv whipped around his head, seized up Andy, muttered, “You’re her assistant huh? HR will have to say something about that, not to mention the INS about Visa fraud.”

“Irving, may I remind you that your wife is still not aware of your decade-long affair with your thirty-something secretary? Isn’t she called Cheryl-something?” He actually gasped for air, muttered “Christine” and waggled out of the office. 

“Oh well, close enough,” Miranda said to nobody in particular - at least that’s what Andy thought - until it became clear she was talking to _ Andy_. Then Andy remembered how to breathe. “We are _ what _?”

“Marrying. Don’t be daft.”  
Andy forgot how to breathe again. Spluttered. “Don’t be daft? Oh, I’ll… you - … how...”  
Even worse was Miranda’s reply. “It’s perfectly legal, isn’t it? Honestly, _ Andrea. _”

“We are _ so _ not doing _ this_,” Andy said and almost stalked off, that is, until Miranda stood up, giving her a cold glare. “Stay. Didn’t you want to be a journalist or something?” Andy imagined the blacklist looming over her head.

“Oh my god, Miranda, are you _ threatening _ me?”  
“I’m doing nothing of the kind.” Miranda replied blandly.  
Andy saw red. “You know what? I quit. Fuck you, Miranda, this is not only about you, you selfish…”

“Well, then, say it. Go on with your childish temper tantrum, Andrea,” she said quietly, the evenness of her voice deceptive, and Andy lamented for a brief moment the fragments of the comfortable working relationship she had built up with Miranda. “Out with it, darling.” 

If Miranda wanted to play it like this, she could have it. “Fine! You’re a selfish _ bitch_! Arthur told me the risks. _ Five years _ in prison, Miranda, _ five years _. And then you’re threatening to blacklist me because I don’t want to go along with your insane plan?”

Miranda now sat in the windowsill of her office, watching the New York traffic outside. “Is that how you think of me?” Miranda sounded strange and if Andy didn’t know better, _ hurt _ even. Well, maybe calling Miranda Priestly a selfish bitch didn’t exactly help, but this was yet another of those _ ridiculous _ Priestly demands, and Andy considered it to be the goddamn red line. Fuck Miranda, and fuck her stupid green card. 

“I wasn’t going to threaten you with blacklisting,” Miranda said, her voice barely audible. 

Andy stared.

“I was going to offer you employment better suited to your talents. Never let it be said that I do not nurture it. You would obviously get a… monetary compensation as well for the impact on your own life.”

She stared some more. Miranda studied the traffic with a great deal of interest. Finally, Andy managed to at least think coherently, scraping herself together. “Miranda, I’m so-” 

“Save your apologies for someone else. You meant what you said. I simply find myself in a most unfortunate predicament, and I will not shirk from doing what I must do to maintain my career.” There was definite ice in that voice. Oh god. 

“You’re still compromising me.”

“Ah, yes, your little work ethic. Isn’t that why you aren’t doing this job? To get a recommendation for your big break into journalism?” Andy stiffened. She was right, as usual. 

Still. “I’ll quit after New Years. In any case, frauding the USA into giving you a Green card isn’t that easy.”

Miranda merely sniffed. “You can do the impossible, can’t you?”  
Andy looked sceptical. “You are aware that this could, no, _ would _ be a Stokes interview?”  
Miranda gave her a blank look.  
“What do I usually have for breakfast in the morning?”  
“How is that relevant?” 

Andy sighed. “A Stokes interview is where we are supposed to answer questions about each other, Miranda. Separate. If you fuck up, I’m done for.”

A sharp intake of breath. She ignored it. “You want me to comply, you’re going with me to _ Cincinnati_, _ Ohio _ for the holidays. The twins are staying with their father for Christmas, no?” Fuck Miranda, fuck this job and fuck her work ethic.

Miranda stared at her. It took Andy a minute to realize Miranda Priestly was indeed, astonished. Then, a nod. “If I’m back in time for the Elias-Clarke New Year event. Book two plane tickets.”

“We’re driving and we’ll be back in time.”

Miranda’s lips pursed. Oh crap. “Do you even have a car?” Andy straightened. “Uh - I was going to rent one.” An evil little smile. “My car. And _ I _drive.” 

Then Andy asked “Shake on it?” and Miranda gave her her best you-absolute-idiot look, but did take Andy’s hand - even though she acted like Andy’s hand had the bubonic plague and gave a purposeful limp handshake. Guess the selfish bitch comment hit pretty hard. It still was a first though, touching Miranda’s hand, which was soft and warm, and Andy actually didn’t realize before how nice that was, but anyway, she’d told Miranda that she was a selfish bitch and did somehow not get fired, so that was quite incredible.

“Anyway, I really need to be calling my parents about the extra guest, who is incidentally also my boss and fiancée.” And with that, Andy strode out of the office, wondering why the hell she had agreed to this. She really was going to marry Miranda Priestly, huh?

Emily looked at her in confusion - thank god the office was soundproof - but Andy merely said, “Gotta dash,” and decided to make her call in the Runway break room that no one ever used because no one took breaks. Oh, she was _ so _ fucked.

“Richard Sachs, Sachs & Miller Finance Lawyers.”

“Hi dad!” She tried to sound as cheery as possible and failed miserably. Better to tackle Dad first. He’d deal with everyone else. “Andy?” Her dad sounded mildly surprised. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing _ stuff _?” 

“Um, well, yes. Would you mind if I brought someone along for Christmas? Uh, like a special someone?”

Silence. Andy cringed. 

“I - uh - didn’t know you were seeing someone again?” _ After Nate _ . Her mother hadn’t exactly been happy with the break-up, and she knew Dad had liked Nate quite a lot. They’d both dropped hints about tying the knot anytime soon. Look at how _ that _ had turned out. 

“Yeah, it sorta happened.” More like Miranda sprang it on her and she went along with it because she was completely insane.

“Who is he?” Oh well, fuck.  
“Er... Not a he.” Andy wanted to die.  
“Oh, gotchu,” her father said after a while, “Well, that’s uh new. What’s her name?”  
Andy _ really _ wanted to die. “Her name is Miranda.”  
It became very silent on the other side.  
“Miranda?” her father finally choked out, “as the in the Miranda who’s your boss?”  
“Yeah?”  
More silence.  
“Andy…”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Andy quickly interrupted him, “I just want to know, yes or no?” She could hear a deep sigh on the other end of the line.  
“Fine, I’m not liking it, but yes, you can take her here if you insist.” Despite everything, Andy smiled. “Please tell mom? Bye Dad!” Then she hung up before there could be more protests. Well, lying to the United States was one thing, lying to her parents another.

“Andrea!” a familiar voice carried through the Runway offices. Oh - out of all the things. 

* * *

The friday before Christmas, at the ass-crack of dawn, Andy took the sub to Miranda’s townhouse, only to find Roy struggling with a ridiculous amount of suitcases. She frowned at Miranda. “We’re staying for a week, Miranda. And I thought_ you _ were driving.”

Miranda gave her the _you-idiot_ look again. “Roy picked up the car in the Hamptons.”

“Oh.” Andy looked at the car and realised she was looking at a black Ferrari sportscar that was probably worth more than she’d make in a lifetime. 

“We’re taking the Ferrari,” Miranda said while easing herself in the car “Roy, put our luggage in the car. The address?”  
“5850 Grand Legacy Dr, Maineville, Ohio.” Andy finished quickly, and immediately noticed a pair of eyes boring through her.

“I thought we were going to _ Cincinnati _ ?”  
“It’s forty minutes from Cincinnati, Miranda.”

“Fine.” Andy entered the address in the GPS, and with that, Miranda pushed on the gas pedal, which made the engine roar unnecessarily. As turned out, Miranda was a great driver with a complete lack of respect for speed limits. Figures.

The first hour was spent in relative silence, mostly because Andy saw kind of green. Then, Miranda asked, “How did your parents take it?”  
“Not well. What did you expect?” Andy answered, maybe slightly too catty, because Miranda stiffened and pushed down harder on the gas pedal. “I see.”

“I’ll call Leslie?” A cautious venture, not a question. 

“Later. At least Irving isn’t too stupid to realise it’d be bad publicity for Elias-Clarke. I’m telling the twins first.” She actually winced at that. “I would rather have they weren’t so delicate. Here’s to hoping William won’t get air of it or else it’ll go to his head again.” Miranda explaining herself. That was new too.

“Sure, uh we need to start preparing stuff for that Stokes interview.” Miranda pursed her lips at stuff. Andy didn’t apologize.

“Later. Call Arthur and tell him to make an appointment with the Office for Immigration. Then let him draw up a prenup, obtain the license and find someone to prepare the ceremony. That’s all.”

She bit back a sigh, and began her phone calls. Smarmy Archie tried to protest, but Andy merely barked, “Get over it, mr. Ellis, or else Miranda will be forced to contact another attorney.” He, eventually, got over it. Andy could’ve sworn Miranda had smiled at that.

Not that she could think about it. “Find a suitable restaurant on the way and make a reservation for lunch.” She found something with enough stars to hopefully appease Miranda. “We don’t accept reservations for today anymore.”  
“It’s for Miranda Priestly.”  
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll see what we can do, miss Sachs. See you in a few hours.” Andy put down the phone with relief, and read a book while Miranda effortlessly weaved through the traffic. A few hours later, in Pittsburgh, Miranda indeed pronounced the lunch to be _ acceptable _with a singular nod. Thank God. Not much time to linger though, because if anything, Miranda’s middle name was punctuality. 

* * *

“Andrea, put on some music for God’s sake.” Andy looked up from the book she was reading and instinctively opened the glove compartment to find a stack of CD’s. _ What the hell, Miranda _? She filed through the CD’s and was confronted with a collection that made no sense - Rammstein and the Jonas Brothers? Time to guess what Miranda liked (Rule number one: you do not ask Miranda anything) - and she had an inkling it wasn’t the Jonas Brothers or Justin Timberlake for that matter. Must be the twins.

When she slid _ Mutter _ in the CD-player with a muttered “I like Linkin’ Park myself,” Miranda’s face remained blank, focused on the road as ever, but once Till Lindemann’s voice blasted out of the speakers, Andy noticed two fingers idly drumming along. Who knew Miranda Priestly was a Rammstein fan? 

Rammstein was fun for half an hour or so. An hour later, Andy wanted to continue reading Pride and Prejudice, which she’d started reading while waiting for the Book. Alas, Till Lindemann was still blasting through the speakers. Another hour passed by - she wanted to nap (though she doubted that she would with Miranda next to her) - but by then, Miranda had insisted on playing Stahlhammer, and from there, it only went downhill into what the hell she was into. Three hours later, Andy decided that all rules about not asking Miranda anything could go to hell. “Do you even speak German?” she asked, as she handed Miranda the GlaubeLiebeTod CD by a band called Oomph! Not that she knew what it was, and at this point, she had no interest in finding out anymore. 

“Ja,” came the answer, without missing a beat, “natürlich.”  
“What?”  
Miranda just smirked.

Andy opened her mouth to ask another question, but at that point - and she was damn sure it was purposeful - Miranda had turned up the volume button once again. She rolled her eyes and tried to focus on Pride and Prejudice again. Not that it was much use. Luckily, before she went insane, her dad called. Wonder above wonders, she did not miss the call due to Miranda’s music, and managed to pick up just in time. 

“Hi dad!” Andy yelled, before turning down the music herself. Miranda glared.  
“What the hell’s that music?”  
“Uh - it’s something from an album called _ Glabeliep-something _.”

“GlaubeLiebeTod,” Miranda corrected with the same bitchy voice she’d delivered the whole cerulean-sweater lecture in. Andy pointedly ignored her.  
Luckily, her dad couldn’t hear it. “When will you guys be arriving?”

A look at the GPS. “Twenty minutes, give or take?” The engine revved. Andy gave Miranda a dirty look. 

“Until then!” And as turned out, it would be less than fifteen minutes, before the car was parked on the driveway while it blasted some random song Miranda seemed to particularly enjoy. Maybe because it’d scared the shit out of Andy, the beginning calm until all hell broke loose. “It’s just loud,” she declared upon getting out of the car - “and meant to turn you prematurely deaf. No content whatsoever.”

“It’s nothing of the kind,” Miranda replied in her characteristic snotty tones. Turns out she could not only obliterate whoever she wanted to when it came to fashion, but also Neue Deutsche Härte. “It’s perfectly legitimate. . . if you knew German.” Andy ringed the doorbell in protest. “I believe it was Erich Kastner’s poem,” _ Shit _. Kastner. She totally knew, and knew Andy had finally realised that too. “that supplied the lyrics for ah, Eine Frau spricht im Schlaf. When Rammstein did Links 2-3-4, they alluded to Bertolt Brecht’s Einheitsfrontlied, one of the most fundamental songs of the German Labour movement, so it’s really funny how you think Neue Deutsche Härte-”

Andy’s parents opened the door, Andy said “Hi mom, hi dad!” while giving them a hug, and that was the end of Miranda’s little lecture on music. 

“Mr. Sachs. Mrs. Sachs.” If the roadtrip with Miranda had been bad, this would be so much worse, especially because right now, Miranda had plastered her best crocodile smile on her face, and said, “It’s _ wonderful _to meet the parents of my fiancée - ” before proceeding to give them air-kisses.

Andy’s mom froze in place. Her dad stiffened slightly. Andy said, “Come on, let’s get unpacked!” and managed to save the situation. Yeah, she was good at that. “Dad, you wanna help?”

“Sure do,” and with that Richard Sachs beheld the car. “This is not a rental, is it?”

“It’s a Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano, mr. Sachs. And it’s mine.”  
“Oh, Rich will do... Ms. Prie-.”  
“Miranda,” Andy interrupted, and then said, “Richard.”

“Does everyone in your family shorten their names?” Miranda murmured, making it sound like they all committed some horrible crime - it probably was, in her eyes. 

“Yes - oop!” She nearly keeled over, trying to unload one of Miranda’s suitcases. Her dad caught on, but even he struggled for a brief moment. Miranda rolled her eyes, took over and effortlessly lugged it inside. Andy and her dad both stared.

In the meantime, Andy’s mom had brought her sister and brother in law outside to help with all of Miranda’s damn luggage - because it _ definitely _wasn’t Andy’s. “Rach! David!” Another series of hugs.

David actually let out a whistle upon seeing the car. “Aight, that’s one hell of a pretty girl.”

Miranda gave him a look. 

“We took the liberty of preparing your old room for you two,” her mom said when all the luggage was finally upstairs, “Dinner will be ready in an hour, so you’ll have the time to settle in.”

“Let me show you around, Miranda,” Andy said with a veneer of fake enthusiasm, and dragged Miranda away by the hand before she could cause more damage. Once Andy’s parents were out of earshot, she jerked her hand away and said, “That was uncalled for.” 

“At least try to act like we’re a couple,” Andy retorted, and opened the door to her childhood room.


	2. Two: jingle bell, jingle bell, the holidays ‘r hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finished most of chapter three + the epilogue, so expect an update between now and two weeks.

**Two: jingle bell, jingle bell, the holidays ‘r hell**

Andy’s room hadn’t changed much after the four years at Northwestern. In fact, it still had the same late 90’s and early 00’s posters (Linkin’ Park) and print that gave Miranda a headache. Even worse was the bed. It wasn’t even kingsize. Or queensize for that matter. It was a _ tiny _ two-person bed.

Andy looked at Miranda. Andy looked at the bed.  
Miranda looked at Andy. Miranda looked at the bed. 

“I’m about fifteen seconds from bitch.”  
“It was your idea.”

Miranda looked at Andy. Then to the floor. Andy shrugged. “You can sleep next to me.” Miranda glared. Andy did not budge. Miranda glared harder.

“Fine,” Miranda murmured, throwing the rest of the pillows on the ground, together with two blankets. “I’m sleeping on the floor tonight.” Andy put back her clothes in her old shelves. Miranda unpacked as well, and then called dibs on the bathroom. “I’m changing and taking a shower. I drove for nine hours.”

She was kind of right, Andy guessed, and changed into her ratty Northwestern sweater. 

>> DOUG(H): sooooo nige and i mightve gone on a date…  
>> DOUG(H): and then we had great sex @my ratty apartment   
>> ANDY: no details plz  
>> DOUG(H): meow darlin’ :3c

Rolling her eyes at her phone, she set up temporary office in her room, before finally going downstairs, bracing herself for the storm. Her mother was the first to corner her. “You’re marrying… that?”

“Yes, mom, as a matter of fact I am going to.”  
“I - _ how _ ?”  
“Things… sort of happened?” Andy said.  
“She’s twice your age, Andy. I thought we raised you better than that.”  
“Mom - ”  
“She’s you feel horrible, Andy. It’s not being demanding, it’s being _ sadistic_. You could’ve gone to Stanford law - _ why this _?

“_ Elizabeth_,” Miranda’s voice was coated in sugar, which made it all the more poisonous, “how lovely to know what you think of me.”

Andy and her mom turned around. Eliza flustered visibly, and Andy saw Miranda was dressed for battle, looking at least ten years younger in a black Stella McCartney dress and stockings paired with red Jimmy Choo platform pumps that made her taller than anyone else in the house. 

Plus, the body. Where Elizabeth Sachs had mellowed, slightly plump at fifty-two, Miranda Priestly still had the body of a twenty-four year old. In fact, Andy was sure she had a better body than her own - at fifty-one, that kind of ass should be criminal. Honestly, it wouldn’t be beneath Miranda just to do this so Andy’s mom could feel bad about herself. One look at her mom told her she was successful about it as well.

Well.

Nonetheless, it was quite the sight - while Miranda staring daggers at her didn’t quite work on her anymore, it _ did _ work on her mom, and Andy found it both amusing and annoying (it was _ her _mother after all). Still, she began getting bad feelings about this spiel, but hell would freeze over before she’d call it quits now.

Thankfully, Rachel interrupted, intentionally or unintentionally defusing the situation. “Hey mom, can I help with anything? You guys just sit down with Dave - you must be tired after driving all the way here from New York.” Andy gave her a grateful look. 

Miranda, however, kept staring daggers at Andy’s mother, until Andy pushed her the hell away, after which she snapped out of it.

David was still blissfully unaware. “Miranda, you got a damn fine car parked out there!”  
“Yes, I do.” At least she managed a tight smile. “62 mph in 2,3 seconds.”  
He whistled - again - “Ever done races?”

“No, not _ yet_, but the 24 hours of Le Mans is something I’ve always wanted to do.” And with that, Andy was completely forgotten until dinner was served. Well.

Later that night, Miranda said thoughtfully, “I think I like David.” Andy had stared.

* * *

After dinner, Kevin strutted in and Andy _ rushed _ from the table to hug him. “Kev!” He purred. Miranda’s back went ramrod straight. “By all means, do keep the mongrel around,” and Andy was about to protest, when her mom snapped that “this is _ still _ my house and Kev is free to go wherever he wants.”

“Eliza - ” Richard tried, and Andy hissed, “Mom!” but her mother and Miranda were still locked in a glaring contest Miranda would inevitably win. If not for the fact that she sneezed. Multiple times. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that this was Miranda’s way of saying she was allergic to cats. Rachel stood up, motioning to her husband to follow her. “Give Kev to me, Andy, I’ll keep him in our room.” 

Andy decided that her sister probably was the nicest person in the world. 

“We’ll do the dishes, dad. Thanks for dinner, mom.” Andy’s parents nodded stiffly, and put everything on the counter before escaping Miranda. Admittedly, it was quite the sight, Miranda doing the dishes in a priceless Stella McCartney dress. Andy doubted she’d ever done the dishes in her life. “I’m so-”

“Don’t apologize.” Miranda put down the last dish and went upstairs.

* * *

Andy sighed, put everything away and found Miranda - exasperated - typing away on her MacBook, hunched over Andy’s old desk. She looked pretty when she was focusing like that - but not that Andy got much time to think about that because Miranda said in a tone that implied she was pissed off beyond measure, “Is there WiFi in _ Maineville _?” 

“Uh- ” Andy dashed. 

Downstairs, her parents were talking to Rachel and David, and Andy immediately knew they were shittalking Miranda again. 

“She called Kev a mong-” Elizabeth huffed, but closed her mouth once she saw Andy standing in the doorway of the living room.  
“Hi mom,” better pretend she hadn’t heard something. “what’s the WiFi password?”

“AndyRachel800,” came the answer, and with a completely innocent face, “I thought you guys were going to sit with us?” Andy just glared. “We’re working. The January issue needs to go to print in a week and Patrick only finished three days ago with the reshoot of the Dries Van Noten spread.”

“Patrick?” her father managed.  
“_Demarchelier_.” And with that, Andy went back upstairs.  
“Wifi password is AndyRachel800. A and R capitalized.”  
“How incurably bourgeois.” Miranda rolled her eyes.

Still, Andy had a fleeting suspicion at least one of her passwords had to do with Caroline and Cassidy. _ Hypocrite. _ At nine, Miranda skyped them - “Good evening Bobbseys. I hope your _ father _ has been treating you well. How is Patricia?” That sounded vaguely threatening. Then again, it _ was _ Miranda. The twins sounded chipper. “Patricia’s doing great, mom! Where are you?”

“I-” Miranda looked helplessly at Andy for a second. Then steeled herself, as if she was confessing to some horrible crime. “Maineville, Ohio.”

“Where is that?” She bet it was Caroline.  
“Forty minutes from _ Cincinnati_.”  
“Why?” Again, Caroline.  
The other twin - probably Cassidy - interrupted, “For Runway, dummy!”  
“Cassidy, don’t call your sister a dummy,” Miranda said gently, and Andy applauded herself on getting it right. “And no, I’m not here for work.”

“Look at the background, Cass - it’s too ugly to be for work.” Andy froze. Miranda smirked, then reminded the pickle she’d worked herself in, and sighed before beginning her explanation. “Mom has met someone she really likes. That’s why she’s staying there, despite the really ugly wallpaper.”

“See, Caro, it’s like with Stephen!” Cassidy interrupted. Being compared to Stephen - Andy wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Then Caroline said with a lot more thought in her voice, “what if we dislike him, just like Stephen?” Miranda actually looked stricken. “What if we don’t want you to marry?” Even the twins wouldn’t be privy to the true reasons of this joke of a marriage, it seemed.

Andy actually felt bad for Miranda, then realized that _ this _ was her idea, until it dawned on her that if Miranda were to be deported it’d be even worse for the twins - she _ could _possibly lose custody because of that - and that made her feel even worse. If anything, the woman behind the MacBook, was a lioness fighting for her children. Way to go, Sachs. 

Suddenly, Andy realised Miranda had turned the laptop to Andy, and she was faced with a pair of identical twins. The twins stared. Andy stared back, but then noticed Miranda’s (she actually was fidgeting) ‘come on’ gesture, and finally said “Hi Caroline, hi Cassidy!”

“Hi Andy!” They chorused, and then Caroline said, “I really like Charles Dickens! He’s fun! Thanks for the book!” Miranda had the same look on her face as when Andy had said they’d be going to Cincinnati during Christmas. Apparently she’d only known about the Kastner book. “I like Emily Brontë more,” Cassidy piped up, “But Heathcliff is _ so mean_!” Then the twins must’ve both realized that Miranda was - as outrageous as it sounded - was indeed going to marry Andy. “Oh,” Cassidy said, and then, Miranda turned the MacBook back to face her again. Without missing a beat, Caroline declared, “So, you’re like a lesbian now? Cool.”

Andy had, never, ever seen someone blushing like that. It struck her that Miranda must be completely out of her depth, had not anticipated this question, because she cautiously said, “I think that’s a discussion we’ll have when you’re back, Bobbseys.” A frown - Miranda glanced at her watch - “Shouldn’t you be going to bed now?”

“But _ Mooooom… _” They eventually relented, however, and said their goodbyes, waving at Andy as well. Miranda gave her a curious look for a minute, then shook her head and went on typing. Not that it was of much use, because fifteen minutes later, she got up with an annoyed huff, rummaging in her bag, only to fish up a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. 

“Um, Miranda?”  
A grunt.  
“Can you do that outside?” Miranda held her gaze for a split second and went downstairs. Andy followed, and between drags, she gave her an irritated look. This was like the elevators. It figured.

Andy ducked another Priestly insult by escaping to the living room. Luckily for her, her mother wasn’t shittalking Miranda anymore. “Hi,” Andy said, “she’s smoking outside. Thought I’d join you guys.” And with that, she sunk into comfortable back-and-forth banter with the rest of her family. It was nice, as long as she cautiously avoided the topic Miranda. 

* * *

At eleven, even Andy, who was used to long days at Runway, was tired. When she entered the bedroom again, Miranda had changed into the same grey robe she’d worn in Paris, and now devoid of any makeup on her face. Yeah, Paris. That’d been weird. At least she hadn’t been visibly crying now, and Andy realised Miranda didn’t look much different, just… kinder. 

“Night,” Andy said awkwardly, and tried to sleep, which was kind of really difficult, when your boss was sleeping on the floor a few foot further. She did, eventually fall asleep, but by three AM, was awoken by a violent fit of coughing and someone shaking her shoulder.

Andy switched on the light, saw a very unrepentant Kevin sitting in the corner, and a slightly blue Miranda trying to shake her awake. “Bag - uche - EpiPen.” Andy nearly flew out of the bed, finding an EpiPen safely tucked away, tossed the case away, then tried to remember how she’d administered one to Rachel ten years ago, but Miranda yanked it out of her hands, flicked off the blue safety cap in a wheezing fit and jammed it with such force in her thigh that Andy actually yelped.

“I’m calling 911 - ” and Andy went hunting for her phone until she was stopped by a dirty look from Miranda that alternated between her and Kevin, “or not…” she finished weakly, scooping up Kevin from out of his corner, and locking him in the kitchen. When she came back upstairs, Miranda was using an inhaler - then why the hell did she smoke? - and had removed the EpiPen from her tigh. “I am not sleeping as long as there are traces of that _ mongrel _ in this room.”

Seeing she and the rest of the family had nearly killed Miranda by proxy, Andy wasn’t about to feel sorry if they woke up by her vacuuming the room. Especially since Miranda looked like she wasn’t in a state to do _ anything _ at all, Andy supposed being nice and cleaning the room of Kevin herself wouldn’t harm her. _ Christ, I’m too good for this world. _

Naturally, her mom came looking, armed with a rolling pin. Thank god Andy had thrown Miranda’s makeshift bed back on the actual bed. “Why are you _ vacuuming _at this hour?” She turned off the vacuum. “The feral you baptized _ Kevin _nearly killed me,” Miranda cut off Andy before she could say something, finally tucking away her puffer. “Andrea was so kind to clear the room of his traces before I go into anaphylaxis a second time.”

Rachel came looking too. “Kevin’s go-”

“You didn’t say,” Miranda replied drily, and took her phone. “Samuel, it’s Miranda. Make sure the pharmacy nearest to 5850 Grand Legacy Dr., Maineville, Ohio has three EpiPens and stronger allergy medicine waiting for me by tomorrow morning, nine AM sharp. Not a minute later.”

Andy’s mom and sister stared. As for Andy, well, she rolled her eyes and slammed the door in their faces. “Give her some space - it’s not a damn zoo,” before finishing her vacuuming session. Miranda actually looked grateful, then stood up and groaned, a hand shooting to her lower back. 

“Stop being stubborn and get over here. If mom came in earlier, we’d have lots of explaining to do.”

Miranda sighed. No escaping to be done - and that’s how they wound up sleeping awkwardly back-to-back on a slightly too small bed. Morning come, Miranda dressed once more for war, this time wearing a Bill Blass blouse and slacks that emphasized her ass more than they should. The pharmacist looked. Andy glared back.

* * *

They were sitting in the living room working - really, Andy’s old bedroom was too small for them both, with Miranda typing as if her life depended on it and Andy making calls. No one dared to disturb them - by then, Richard and Elizabeth Sachs had realised Andy meant business and that Miranda Priestly was completely and utterly unrepentant when it came to what they saw as corrupting their daughter. 

“God,” Andy moaned, slamming down her phone. “Paris Hilton is such a bitch.” Miranda’s lips quirked upwards behind the computer screen. “I’m going outside,” she said, and left Miranda to her own devices. 

“Dad.”  
Richard Sachs looked up. Smiled. “Finally took a break, didya? Surprised she let you.”  
“She’s my fiancée now,” Andy said matter-of-factly, and then, “Hey, can I take over for a while?”  
“Sure can,” he replied, and handed her the axe, but not before she named a log of wood ‘Paris Hilton’ with a post-it. “That bad, huh?” Andy nodded, and started chopping with grim pleasure, while blasting Linkin’ Park through her iPod. Finally some good music. 

When Andy’s done, it was a pretty darn high stack of wood that’s been lying next to her, and she also found herself completely drenched in sweat. Been a while since she felt that good. Now only a shower, and it’d be great. 

Miranda wasn’t anywhere to be seen, Mom downstairs preparing for the Christmas party with dad enlisted; Rachel and David were in Cincinnati - probably getting the special spices for mom and Christmas presents for everyone. Which made Andy realise she hadn’t got a thing. Not that she could drive either, because it was Miranda’s car, and last time she nearly got a scratch on the coating. 

She’d ask Miranda tomorrow. Nicely.

Anyway, time for that shower, Andy thought, peeling the sweater from her body, together with the rest of sweat-drenched clothing. It might be damn cold outside, chopping wood remained exhausting.. 

She opened the bathroom door, only then remembered to remove her earpods, and wound up walking straight into a very naked Miranda Priestly, who let out a curse in her uppity accent when they collided (“Dumkopf!”), and unfortunately, the floor’s kinda slippery - something Andy’s bemoaned a lot in her youth - so naturally Andy slipped, and managed to take down Miranda in the process. Who was now lying on top of her. Still naked.

“Why are you wet?”  
“Why are you naked?”

“Idiot,” Miranda murmured, peeling herself from Andy and turning to face the wall, and then hissed, “Get me a towel, this instant.” Andy scrambled back to the bedroom, covering her own private parts in a towel of her own, and - all while blushing furiously - handing Miranda a towel as well. Well, _ damn_. She knew Miranda had size zero, but it was only now that Andy truly realized that size zero meant stick-thin with toned abs. Frankly, it was deeply unfair a woman more than twice her age was in better shape than she was.

Miranda merely huffed and strutted out the bedroom, her signature white hair still clinging to her head. It looks sorta cute. Sorta. 

They didn’t talk of it, but every time she met Miranda’s eyes during a very terse dinner, Andy began to blush, and a dull redness crept up Miranda’s neck. That evening, because Miranda’s back - unless what she herself liked to think - was not what it was once, they lay back-to back in the way-too small bed again. 

“It was kinda weird, seeing you naked.” Smart, Andy, smart, babbling again. If there was anything Miranda Priestly hated, it was idle chatter.  
“Please,” Miranda replied softly, before flicking the light off. “let’s not talk about this.” She was right though. If Andy thought more about it, she’d only hurt her head.

* * *

“Miranda, would you mind me borrowing the car?” Miranda blinked slowly, like a crocodile did, then arched a singular eyebrow.

“Uh, I’d like to go into town, get Christmas presents for my parents and uncle Ron.” They’d do the tradition of assigning people to each other. Andy had forgotten.  
“I’ll go with you.”  
“But-” She faltered. No one else would get something for Miranda. And it should be sort of a surprise. They were stuck with each other now, and it’d only be nice. Yeah, nice. 

“I don’t celebrate Christmas, Andrea.” Miranda said, as if she could read Andy’s mind. During the forty minute drive to Cincinnati centre, she - thankfully - did not put on her damn music again. “It’s a vapid little display of consumerism.” 

Andy shrugged. “Hey, yesterday, what language were you speaking?”

“I’d hardly call it speaking,” Miranda replied, her neck flushing a dull red at the memory. “And it was German, obviously.”

Andy frowned. “Aren’t you like, British? There’s no Runway Germany either...”

“That’s because the average German has the same fashion taste a sow has,” Miranda sniffed, and when Andy opened her mouth to say something, she braked far harder than was necessary - her little smile of demonic amusement told Andy so - so that was the end of that, ‘cause by the time Andy’d recovered from having the air knocked out of their lungs, Miranda had parked the car and was waiting impatiently.

In the end, Andy zoomed in on country music and a bottle of scotch for uncle Ron and got her parents a Netflix subscription. Which was all kind of weird with Miranda in tow. Even in a big city like Cincinnati, Miranda Priestly stood out, and not a little bit. Miranda didn’t do signatures. Nor did she do selfies. Andy was actually glad to be in the car again, especially because she saw Miranda getting more catty by the minute. The unfortunate young man with the balls to ask, “hey, M’randa, how ‘bout a picture?” got a look that shriveled up those balls in an instant. Andy didn’t even feel sorry for him.

Andy put her presents under the Christmas tree while Miranda smoked outside. Which was strange, because she’d never seen Miranda smoke before yesterday. Christmas Eve was terse once more, but at least Rachel and David were nice. 

“I haven’t seen you smoke before aside from those two times,” Andy said that night.  
“_Ohio _ has an habit of bringing out the worst in me.”

* * *

The big Sachs christmas party. ‘Twas the season, and by 9 AM, Miranda had worked herself in yet another snit, because they had woken up in a position where Andy had to forcibly extract herself from an at that moment sleeping Miranda’s embrace, which meant that Miranda now sat in the living room hammering on the keyboard of her unfortunate MacBook.

“_Andrea_, get me that research editorial did on philosophy and find me a bunch of suitable philosophers for the magazine. Alive.” Andy’s dad looked at her, and Miranda pursed her lips, adding “Please?”

Andy might’ve giggled after that, which only earned her Miranda’s (mock) ire. “Giggling is unbecoming, even at twenty-five, Andrea. You should know that.” She rolled her eyes and handed Miranda the USB from editorial, before diving into Wikipedia.

“I’ve got a bunch,” Andy said about an hour later.  
Miranda raised an eyebrow and opened a new tab in Safari.

“Chomsky?” No response. Too well-known probably.  
“Habermas?” No response. Must be the face.  
“Martha Nussbaum?” No response. Probably looked too mainstream.  
“Dennett?” No response. Must be the beard.  
“Judith Butler?” Miranda scoffed. Andy then realized that was a dumb idea. Like, really dumb, because whereas Miranda had taken it upon her to define Woman in Runway magazine, Butler had spent her career destroying those definitions.  
“Sloterdijk?” No response. Probably the funny moustache.  
Andy scowled. Googled some more, and then found what Miranda was looking for in a scruffy Slovenian communist with a gorgeous model slash wife.  
“Zizek?” A non-committal hum. That was a good sign. “Did some stuff with Abercrombie & Fitch five years ago and appeared last year in some movie called ‘the Pervert’s guide to Cinema’.”  
“Get me a sample of his work.” 

Andy found scans of four-hundred page dense philosophical work, and a bunch of weird videos on Youtube. “I’ve got a video and a few books.”

“The video.” Miranda adjusted on her glasses and was promptly confronted with a man who had probably the worst cocaine addiction in the world and was giving a lecture about toilets. She actually smiled. Genuinely. Andy’s heart might’ve jumped at that. “Suitable. Contact his publisher.”

Andy decided she would never _ ever _ understand Runway. Miranda, _ her _she could get, Runway not so.

Around one, Miranda had the decency to stop working, especially since Andy’s aunt Phyllis came in to help her mom - and oh god, oh fuck - she did have the gall to ask Miranda, who’d been working at the time, if she was the mother of Andy’s new girlfriend.

It had not been nice, watching Miranda stiffen, smile that smile that she reserved for people whose guts she utterly _ hated_, only to close her MacBook, placidly say, “Actually, I am Andrea’s fiancée. But you must excuse me - I, ah, need to change into something more… _ festive_.” Which was strange given the fact she had been wearing a classic ensemble consisting out of a white Zac Posen blouse along with black Dior slacks that looked perfectly passable for a Christmas party at the Sachs household, especially when all the men were wearing ugly Christmas sweaters and the women had purchased their dresses from what Miranda no doubt would have termed ‘the clearance bin of some tragic Casual Corner’.

Judging by the sound of it, Miranda’s Prada heels were definitely leaving a trace on the stairs. Andy sighed, and went upstairs, shooting an angry glare at Aunt Phyllis and her own mother, who didn’t even look moderately sorry for her sister’s behavior. 

“Miranda?” No answer.

Andy tried again, but to no avail, after which she decided to just wait. There wouldn’t be any other guests for a while, so that was that. Thirty minutes later, Miranda emerged - with a look on her face that told Andy she was frothing with rage - in a custom-designed plum Valentino, that showed more cleavage than was respectable for a woman of fifty-one, but it did work for Miranda and that was all that mattered.

It had written _ fuck you but also fuck me _ all over it. Top it off with her signature stockings, Manolos, Cartier jewelry and velvet gloves with a fur lining, and Miranda Priestly looked completely and utterly _ fuckable_. The benefit had been one thing, but this was dressing to spite an entire household, and Andy had never seen anything hotter. _ Shit _.

“You look… _ beautiful, _ ” Andy said tentatively, trying not to look everywhere, because then Miranda would know, and she’d be so dead. “Of course,” Miranda growled, “tell that to your aunt _ Phyllis_.” 

She snorted, and went downstairs. They all stared at Miranda - which was the purpose of this whole exercise, really - and Andy was mildly annoyed by the fact uncle Ron was looking at Miranda’s ass a little bit too intent. But why should she be?

Anyway, the rest of Andy’s family finally came pouring in, taking a look at the _ New _ Runway Andy, while Miranda hid behind the Wall Street Journal and rustled it at anyone that came too close. The Netflix was appreciated by her parents, and even uncle Ron seemed satisfied with what he’d gotten, though he still looked like he’d rather wanted Miranda for Christmas. Andy, on the other hand, got an ugly knitted sweater from her grandma - Miranda had actually peered over her newspaper, given Andy an amused look that said _ really? _ \- and a leather agenda for the next year from her parents. 

“Oh,” Andy’s mom said innocently when she’d thanked them, “Lily’s coming after dinner.” Andy closed her eyes before she could lash out, and suffered through dinner together with Miranda, whose appetite had not, to the envy of all other women at the table, decreased.

“No presents for Miranda?” Rachel asked Andy, trying to avoid awkward silences, and exactly when Andy opened her mouth to say, “she doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” Miranda interjected with, “Jewish,” and a thin smile. She sure as hell didn’t keep kosher or studiously avoid the word God, or observe other stuff Jewish people did but Andy figured that if she would ask anything now, death’d be imminent. 

“Oh,” Rachel replied, “I didn’t know that. Your Wikipedia page is rather empty when it comes to your personal life.” Andy, very softly shook her head at her sister. _ Dangerous territory. _

Too late, because Miranda snapped, “Not empty enough.” before angrily putting another piece of meat on her plate. “She doesn’t like press or the spotlights,” Andy inanely clarified, which earned her the patented Priestly Glare of Death.

Rachel stopped trying to make conversation with Miranda after that, but then David said something about the Bugatti Veyron, and she’d actually smiled for the first time since Andy had suggested that weird cocaine addict-philosopher. 

* * *

At nine, Lily stood on the porch with Nate behind her. _ Fuck_. Better not let them see Miranda. Who probably wouldn’t go unnoticed because after dinner, most of Andy’s family had said their goodbyes already. 

“Hi Lils!”

“Andy!” Hugs ensued. Even Nate got one, after the initial awkwardness. “Hey, Andy. Friends again?” One glance at her unrepentant mother told her enough. This’d totally been a set-up. “I invited him before you dropped your little bomb,” said mother hissed when Andy had glared. Thank god Miranda was hiding again behind the newspaper. 

“Still at Runway?” he asked.  
“I’ve given Miranda my erm- two weeks.”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah, I’m quitting after New Years. Hoping to find something soon.”

“Pity Doug is still canoodling with that Art director of yours, then we’d all be free from Runway,” he groused, but a huge smile appeared on his face, and Andy felt a little bit guilty. The truth would be out soon. Better enjoy it now. They talked like old times, and eventually, Andy was able to stand Nate’s company again. She’d fallen for him, once, after all.

“Hey,” Nate eventually said, pointing to the wall, “Mistletoe?” Lily jerked ‘C’mon’ with her head, and Andy would have if not for the fact Miranda had decided they would marry, and so she merely gave Nate a gentle peck on his scruffy cheek. “Aw, c’mere, Andy.”

“I’m sorry, Nate,” and then she took a few steps aside, safely away from the mistletoe that had _ definitely _ not been there yesterday or that morning.

Nate - La Priestly: 1-0

And that was when the peace came crashing down, because Lily said, “Who reads the Wall Street Journal on Christmas?” Andy froze, the paper rustled and both Lily and Nate went suddenly very still. Then: the clacking of Manolos, as Miranda slowly made her way to the three of them, the sway of her hips slightly more seductive than usual. Andy gulped.

Nate - La Priestly: 1-1

“I do,” Miranda purred, smiling that crocodile smile again. “You must be _ Andrea _’s friends, no?” 

“Actually,” Nate began, but Miranda cut him off. “That was a rhetorical question.” This was like watching a shark rip apart a cute seal, but Andy found herself sort of rooting for the shark. _ Bad, bad, bad _. 

Nate - La Priestly: 1-2

“Oh, what a nice Marc Jacobs.” Miranda’s eyes sparkled. Amused, even. _ Shit. Shit. She knew. _ Lily’s eyes widened, her mouth unhinged. This wasn’t a shark ripping apart a cute seal, this was a shark obliterating a whole school of hapless fish at once. Lily finally shut her mouth in an obvious line of displeasure, and meanwhile, Nate had recovered. “What the hell is _ she _doing here, Andy?”

“Oh, how rude. I haven’t even introduced myself.” It was then Andy realised Miranda was only toying with her prey. “Will you introduce us, _ Andrea _?”

_ Shit, shit, shit. _ “Oh, well sure, Miranda. Um, this is Lily Goodwin, my friend. She’s got an Art gallery back in New York and that’s Nate-Nathaniel Cooper, my er, ex-boyfriend. He’s a chef in uhm- Boston. Lily, Nate, this is Miranda Priestly.” 

Miranda finally deigned to give them the Priestly-once over. “Pleased to meet you,” she said airily, and gave them each a fake air-kiss. Now she just was laying it on thick, and Andy was half considering ripping her head off, but on the other hand Lily had conspired with her mom, so she was going to sit back and enjoy this.

Nate was seething. “I assure you that the pleasure isn’t mutual. At all.” 

Nate - La Priestly: 2-2

Miranda barely registered it at all, but instead asked Andy, “Has Devra First RSVP’ed to the Runway invitation for the Elias-Clarke New Year event?” Nate’s eyes went very, very wide as Andy racked her brain for a few seconds and then replied, “Yea?”

Nate - La Priestly: 2-3

He inhaled very sharply, and said, “I don’t care who the hell you think you are, but you’ve ruined everything, you know?” Lily put a warning hand on his arm, but it was ignored. “Andy always bent her back for you and your stupid magazine. Hell, she’s turned into some pod-person who’s sacrificed everything for you. Nothing else is important for a selfish bitch like you, huh?” 

Nate - La Priestly: 3-3

“Nate!” Even though she’d called Miranda a selfish bitch too, this was something entirely else. Not that it had any effect on Miranda - which was strange, because when Andy had yelled at Miranda, she had gone quiet for a long minute, and then had actually _ explained herself _. 

By now Miranda had taken her Marlboros from her purse, and when she lay eyes on Nate again, Andy recognized in those blue eyes this was no longer Miranda’s regular shark behavior, but more reminiscent of Bruce, the killer shark from Jaws. Nate was _ so _dead. 

With a cigarette in her mouth - almost evoking Marlene Dietrich (which Andy thought was hot) - , Miranda drawled, “Oh, I see,” while doing that gesture with her hands when she was talking, “I see how it is. I am a firm believer in the fact Andrea can choose her priorities herself, such as the undoubtedly great career that’s awaiting her. I’m only afraid that doesn’t include you, Nathaniel.” _ Flick_ . Silver Zippo at her mouth, she lit her cigarette despite warning glares from Andy, and vanished with a wink and a puff of smoke. _ Did she just wink? _

Then Andy realised heat was pooling between her legs, and that she was thoroughly turned on. _ Well, fuck. _

Nate - La Priestly: 3-4

Lily had actually brought Nate a glass of wine. Suppose it’d help alleviating the burn. Nate looked at her thoughtfully. “You still haven’t answered my question. What the hell is she doing here?”

Long silence.

“We’re marrying,” Andy finally said, her tone flat. He choked on his wine. 

Nate - La Priestly: 3-5, La Priestly wins. 

Lily looked at her with horror on her face. “You what?”

“I really need to go and check on Miranda. She’s been in a horrible mood for the past two weeks. Well done, Nate. Here’s to hoping I can salvage what’s left of your career,” she said, “merry Christmas.”

It was freezing outside. Andy shivered, but luckily found Miranda not too far away. “You really need to stop smoking if you want to marry me,” she said, half-joking, half-serious. Smoking was bad for you, like you know, lung cancer. Surely Miranda knew that?

“Please. It’ll be the last thing I’ll die of.” Miranda laughed wryly. “I did cocaine in the eighties. We all did.” Andy choked on her breath. Silence. Another drag from the cigarette, tone more serious now. “I meant what I said. You understand our situation, but, my God, Stephen was the same. François and William too. They don’t want you to be their little housewife, but in the end… never worked out - perhaps I should just give men up all together.” Miranda’s bright gray eyes went a little wide at that, as if she only now realized what she was saying. And then she vanished back inside, leaving Andy with a sad shake of her head. 

When Andy came back inside, Nate and Lily were already gone. “Gee, thanks mom, inviting my ex when I’m bringing my fiancée.” Before Elizabeth Sachs could reply, she had already stomped upstairs.

Miranda’s make-up was gone, and she was working again. The light of her MacBook was not kind to her age. Still, and Andy had another realization, she _ was _ a beacon of elegance and beauty. Nigel had been wrong. Miranda was never that guardian. She was the beacon itself. 

“Hey,” Andy finally said, but Miranda ignored it. Trust Miranda Priestly to open up and to act like a _ normal _ fucking human, before immediately pulling up her walls again. Okay, fine, then not. “I’m going to sleep.” 

Miranda however, kept working. Only around one AM, Andy felt the dip of a - now familiar - weight. 

* * *

Boxing day came, and passed by like it was nothing.

* * *

Miranda was in a bad mood, and only talking with the twins improved it marginally, Rachel and David had left, so Andy’s parents didn’t even bother with keeping up appearances.

“I don’t get,” Miranda eventually said through her teeth, when Andy’s parents were out, grocery shopping. “why you insisted on taking me here.” 

“I…” Andy was at a loss. Then found it. “I wanted to get to know you. I’ve learnt a lot. Miranda, I don’t want to blow the Stokes’ interview. Believe me, I want you to get that Green Card.” 

Miranda narrowed her eyes.  
Andy blurted, “I care about you.” Miranda’s lips curled in a sad smile at that, but she shook it off, and continued working. After that, Andy barely dared to say something, anything.

>> DOUG(H): this is nigel, six  
>> DOUG(H): why the hell did doug just say me youre marrying m or what  
>> ANDY: fuck  
>> ANDY: who else knows  
>> DOUG(H): so its true?  
>> ANDY: yup  
>> DOUG(H): fuck six, i don’t know. bad idea  
>> ANDY: i know and idc anymore

She put down her phone and said, “Nigel knows.”

Miranda pretended she didn’t hear it. Andy gave up. Not like Miranda barely talked to her. She just smoked another cigarette, and sounded extremely pissed when she had to phone Paul from the Art department. 

>> ANDY: anygays does m smoke  
>> NIGE: pot or cigarettes?  
>> ANDY: cigs but feel free to tell me abt the former  
>> NIGE: we last did pot together in 1991 n ciggies whenever she’s  
stressed, nervous or pissed off. or all three.

Andy suddenly was envious of Nigel.

>> ANDY: m is nervous?  
>> NIGE: it does happen  
>> ANDY: for science, what other drugs did yall do  
>> NIGE: curious are you, six? um well coke, xtc and lsd probs, but mostly  
coke. xtcs got bad comedowns and m wasnt rly into tripping 

Miranda was still in a bad mood, though Andy couldn’t divine _ why_, unless it was Ohio, but she’d been pissed at Ohio ever since they departed and it had been nowhere this bad.

“Are you mad at me?” Andy finally asked, on the verge of despair. Miranda gave her a strange look. A sigh. “We should talk, shouldn’t we?” 

Andy nodded, motioning to the living room.

“I’ll need a cigarette for this,” Miranda said, sitting down next to Andy, “or Tylenol,” while lighting a Marlboro, despite Andy’s previous protestations about smoking in the house. Miranda truly looked like some old Hollywood star, with that melancholic expression and a cigarette in her hands. It was beautiful.

Then it finally dawned on Andy. It wasn’t just sexual, even though employees usually don’t call think their boss is hot, beautiful or _fuckable_. Still, Andy was at Runway where everyone wanted to fuck Miranda even if they hated her or were gay, but it was different, ‘cause she didn’t just want to fuck Miranda, she’d like to make love to her as well and all the other perks of a relationship. _Fuck._ _Fuck. Fuck. _“I -” Miranda said, after she deposited the cigarette in her ashtray, seeming truly at loss for words. “Well...”

Andy looked at her. Miranda meet her gaze halfway, cleared her throat, and then finally said, “Caroline was right.”

_ About what _, Andy wanted to ask, but then it hit her like a freight train. “Oh.”

“Yes, _ oh_,” Miranda mimicked, pinching the bridge of her nose, then tilted her head and murmured, “I would very much like to kiss you right now, Andrea.”

Andy didn’t know what she’d heard, “M-me? B-but-”, but before she could get out some sort of coherent reply, like ‘You’re way out of my league,’ Miranda had already closed the distance between them with what Andy realized were very soft lips, and which tasted of tobacco and cherries. _ Oh_. This hadn’t been part of the bargain when Miranda had asked, no, _ demanded _ if she’d marry her, but Andy sure as hell didn’t mind. Neither did Miranda, judging by the little noises she was making.

Andy’s head was spinning from Miranda’s perfume - a tang of fresh soap and florals when they broke apart, staring at each other. Miranda’s lipstick had smudged and Andy’s hair was a complete mess. “Oh,” she finally managed, “look at that,” and pointed to the wilting bush of mistletoe.

“At least someone puts it to good use, unlike that fry-cook of yours,” Miranda snarled, but she was smiling, and Andy decided to just kiss her again.

Andy hadn’t the slightest for how long they’d been necking on her parents couch - but then again, Andy had been touch-starved, and if anything, Miranda probably was too - but it definitely had been a long time if her parents returned from whatever grocery shopping they were doing while they were still making out on the couch - though Miranda might’ve pinned her down, her mouth trailing down her neck.

“Oh!” Andy’s mother exclaimed, dropping the carton of eggs she was holding. Richard Sachs merely cleared his throat and looked deeply, deeply uncomfortable.

Miranda actually whimpered when they broke apart, and then color shot to her cheeks - despite what was pale makeup, probably to hide the furious blushing. 

“I -” It was quite the sight, with Miranda’s lipstick smudged everywhere - Andy was pretty sure her own neck was covered in pink lipstick - and the button of Miranda’s blouse had popped, so the lace of her plum bra was visible. “I apologize. I probably should be packing,” Miranda said, and escaped to the bedroom.

Andy’s parents stared blankly at her vanishing figure. Then at Andy, who just shrugged and managed a weak “mistletoe.”

* * *

“Hi,” Andy said, far too cheerful and full of it. Miranda gave her a blank look, said, “No.” and went on with packing.  
“What, _ no _?”

“No everything,” Miranda said in her regular bitchy voice and then picked up another cigarette. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Andy wondered if she had been crying.

“At this rate, you’re going to die before we’re back in New York.” A shrug in reply. The woman really was a menace. Hopefully, also Andy’s menace. Anyway. Andy closed the door, and cornered Miranda, gently cupping her cheek. Yet, Miranda shook her head and dragged Andy’s hand away. “I apologize, Andrea.”

“What?” Apologies from Miranda. New.  
“I can’t do this.” What the hell.  
“But -” Miranda put up a hand to silence Andy.  
“I know. Again, I apologize.” Andy felt like crying.

Dinner was awkward and Miranda missed most of it because of a long-winded phone call with Arthur, and then Editorial, though Andy didn’t believe that. Then she decided to sleep on the floor again and got all red when Andy’s father asked if they had a good night during breakfast

He’d probably meant it without innuendo anyway.


	3. Three: my turn to pick the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw this Thing is finished and while it took longer than expected & i'm not too satisfied with this entire thing, a companion piece from Miranda's pov is coming soon! i could use a beta reader so pls yell at me.

**three: my turn to pick the music**

All things considered, Andy really was glad that they’d be driving back now and not a day later. Not that Miranda’s behavior was normal - or,  _ god forbid _ , she acknowledged Andy’s presence or attempts to make conversation. 

She didn’t even get what Miranda’s problem was - hell, they’d made out on a ratty couch, so what?

So much for preparing for that Stokes interview. If they were going through with this shitshow anyway. Yeah, boring day ahead. Andy, huddled in her Northwestern sweater, slid in the Linkin’ Park CD she’d taken along from home and ignored whatever pointed looks, and snapped “My turn to pick the music,” before opening her Pride and Prejudice book.

Well. 

New York came into view, but Miranda didn’t drive to the city, but to the Hamptons. Roy was waiting with the Mercedes. Andy was about to open her mouth to ask why the hell Roy was there, but Miranda, with the creepy mind-reading again, said, “Roy will take you to your apartment.”

“Roy will not,” Andy said, and figured growing some spine wouldn’t be a bad idea. “we, on the other hand, will talk. Like adults.”

Miranda halted. Finally, Roy was dismissed, and she motioned to enter the Other house. 

“We’re not doing this anymore,” she said, pouring herself a glass of scotch. Her voice, eerily quiet, had an unnatural pitch to it, making it less intimidating, less as if ready to deliver a verbal sucker-punch to Andy’s gut. Still, it was like Miranda had slammed all the air out of her lungs. 

“What?” Then, once having processed those damn words, “Oh no. You don’t get to do that, Miranda. You really don’t. Not after all of this.” Something flickered in Miranda’s eyes. Then she said, “I don’t have time for tantrums like these,” in the most disinterested voice possible, “and this notion of Visa fraud is not going through.”

God, apparently Miranda Priestly hadn’t heard of communication skills. Andy stood a little bit straighter. “No, Miranda.” Then stepped closer. Miranda’s breath hitched, but her lips pursed. Ignoring whatever signs of an incoming verbal lashing, that almost spilled from her lips - she truly was made for war -, Andy Sachs kissed her again. The glass of scotch dropped with a low thud the carpet but did not break.

Miranda leaned in for the briefest of seconds, but pulled away. Andy, mourning the loss, asked, “Why are you fighting this so hard?” and she had no answer, so Andy considered it her duty to kiss her again. 

It was right, this time. Miranda wasn’t being contrary, but instead was pinned against the wall, her teeth dragging along Miranda’s neck. And then,  _ oh _ , Andy managed to undo her blouse, popping open buttons at top speed. 

“Oh,” Andy said when she was finally confronted with the sight of Miranda’s breasts in La Perla.

“I - ” Miranda’s eyes had glazed over, her willowy hands briefly relaxing their insistent hold on Andy’s shoulders and Andy finally managed to loosen the clasps of her bra.

“A-Andrea,” she murmured, almost undoing Andy at that very moment, but then Miranda finally regained control of herself, and said, if not commanded, “We will not do this against a wall,” and turned with brisk steps. Andy stared for a few seconds, only then realizing the weight of what had taken place between them, and decided, that, hell, she wanted more of this, before hurrying - as graceful as she could in stiletto’s - behind Miranda. 

Who was  _ fidgeting _ ? Andy wouldn’t have believed it either if someone would’ve doused a bucket of ice cold water over her sorry head. Anyway, there Miranda was, perched on a immaculately made bed, and intently studying a new, half-empty glass of scotch in what should be feigned boredom.

Except, feigning didn’t really work out, because Miranda’s cheeks were blotched with red, and her breathing was shallow and fast - as if she could hyperventilate any moment. Andy near-tripped in her haste to get on the bed - to get on Miranda, which earned her one of those evil little smirks, but she had her revenge in pinning Miranda down on the bed and tearing off a priceless Dior blouse. Miranda didn’t even look shocked at that, but just leaned forward to kiss Andy, whose hands were drifting under her skirt. 

Oh, Andy thought, when she felt the wetness through soft silk, and decided the skirt had to go as well. Miranda whimpered, arching her hips forward, and Andy fingered her so gently through the fabric she was nearly weeping. Then her breath went just a little faster, an ‘oh’ escaped from parted lips, and holy fuck, Andy had made Miranda come. Not that she was done with Miranda, though, ‘cause by the time Miranda was capable of stringing together a coherent sentence, she was trailing kisses down Miranda’s body. 

Yeah, this was definitely better than all the sex she’d had before - maybe because it was  _ Her _ , but then again, she did funny things to her brain. Andy’s kisses trailed down even lower, and Miranda briefly halted, a vague flash of confusion on her face, but before she could protest, Andy was busy between her legs. 

Her suspicions were confirmed. Miranda still looked breathtaking even when thoroughly fucked. Eyes closed, a hand covering them, as if she wanted to shut out the world. One did, after all, not eat in front of Miranda Priestly, so it only figured she’d have a vaguely similar reaction to this kinda eating. Anyway, she decided to scoot a little bit closer, and Miranda said first, “I- ”, then “Well,” before managing the subsequent, “That -” and a murmured “never before,” after which pink shot to her cheeks.

Andy leaned on her elbow and managed to close her mouth before Miranda caught her staring. “What never?”

“Do I need to spell everything out?” Miranda scowled and went even pinker, until she managed to choke out a vaguely offended sounding “cunnilingus.”

Andy had to bite her lip in order not to laugh of sheer disbelief. This time, Miranda caught her staring and the sharpness in her voice was telltale. “There is a reason, Andrea, that my previous three marriages lie in shambles.” 

Then she got back up, and with a faint bark said, “Enough about that,” before trailing a hand over Andy’s body. “I have not yet _appropriately_ expressed my gratitude for this whole… situation.” And then she proceeded to do exactly that. 

* * *

Andy woke up with a start. Where the hell was she - oh,  _ of course _ . Miranda’s bedroom at the Hamptons, which she’d barely noticed the night before. There were better things to look at, after all. Then she realised that yes, last night’s events had been very real. 

The spot beside her was empty, but still warm. Miranda must’ve left not long ago. They’d have to talk, eventually. But there was no hurry to it. Take it nice and slow, because evidently, Miranda freaked out real quick. Yeah, she’d do that.

Andy, after managing to find underwear and her ratty sweater, went down the stairs. No one. Still, there was breakfast in the kitchen - oats, coffee, tea and fruit juice.  _ Hm _ . No longer in the doghouse then. 

Pouring herself some coffee, not centre-of-the-sun hot anymore, but definitely stronger than the coffee that accompanied her mornings, she listened for signs of Miranda. Silence, then the jarring noise of pages turning - the Book perhaps? - and the choppy sounds of a keyboard. 

However, she  _ was  _ finishing those oats first though; last night’s activities had left her rather ravenous.

* * *

Time for expedition Miranda. Idle wanderings through an house filled with art and expensive design furniture eventually managed to bring Andy to what was Miranda’s study.

“Hi,” Andy said while putting a hand on Miranda’s shoulder, which startled her - though it was barely visible - into closing the tabs of work. 

Her lip pursed. Andy thought:  _ shit _ , but the tension dissipated as quickly as it came, and Miranda straightened. “I - … A good midday, Andrea. Please do get dressed. We are civilized people, after all.”

Half of a mind to make some bad joke about being civilized in bed, but then deciding against it, Andy just nodded, placing a kiss on Miranda’s temple and when she was almost on her way out, she heard Miranda sneer, “then we’ll have that talk you wanted so badly.” 

She smiled, practically floating upstairs. 

* * *

Cigarette smoke announced Miranda’s presence in the living room before Andy even saw her. Red marker ready as one would wield a sword, and the Book along with copious post-it notes in her lap, Miranda bore a scowl on her face, yet remained a sight for sore eyes. She was about to say so, but her presence had not gone unnoticed, and the Book was placed on a coffee table, finally safe from scathing criticism flowing from a red marker. 

“Andrea.” There was a faint trace of pink in Miranda’s face. 

“Hey.” Sitting down, carefully weighing her words, Andy was about to say - ‘Let’s take this nice and slow and see where this brings us’ when Miranda seemed to have found her characteristic cutting eloquence again.

“Your idea about a… conversation was not unwise. I suppose I owe you that much.” And then she proceeded to lots of hurtful things like, ‘You’re a fool, Andrea,’ or, ‘This will damage your career more than it’ll help you,’ and worst of all, ‘My children and Runway will always come on the first place.’

Thank god Andy didn’t back down, even when Miranda’s verbal uppercuts landed, and finally, she relented. “This will change … everything. Not so much in theory perhaps, but in practice, it will. You can’t decide to back out now, Andrea.” And now she looked - one might say, fierce, which was ironic, considering she had always been the one second-guessing herself

Andy wasn’t going to commit harakiri by pointing that out, though. Later, perhaps, but first, she had to get Miranda on board of this mess. A faint smile blooming, then saying, “I won’t.” Silence, afterwards, “I think… no, scratch that. I love you, Miranda.”

Miranda’s eyes went very wide, and then whatever eloquence she had recovered was lost once more. “I - Ah. Yes.”

She giggled. Miranda scowled. Some things looked like they wouldn’t change after all. 


	4. Four: an epilogue of sorts.

**Four: an epilogue of sorts.**

>>  _ Pagesix.com _

_ DEVIL ARRIVES ALONE TO ELIAS CLARKE NEW YEARS GALA _

> **01/01 - 10.30 PM.** While still the belle of the ball, it seems that after her divorce with wealthy Canadian real estate investor Stephen Tomlinson, another beau for our Ice Queen is not yet in the picture. Only her assistant Andrea Sachs was spotted in her company, wearing an equally expensive looking Valentino gown. Perhaps potential suitors have been scared off by her frigid personality or rumors of an impending deportation to the United Kingdom?

_ UPDATE: LA PRIESTLY LESBIAN?  _

> **01/01 - 11.50 PM. ** It seems we were mistaken in our earlier observations of the Devil, and neglected to recognize a far juicier truth. As a source at Elias Clarke tells us, Andrea Sachs (25) left Runway about two weeks ago and spent the whole evening on the arm of an exceptionally pleased looking Miranda Priestly. Who knew? 

_ UPDATE: ICE QUEEN MARRYING FORMER ASSISTANT?  _

> **05/01 - 10.15 AM. ** During a press release we were not invited to, Leslie Williams, Runway’s longtime PR rep announced that La Priestly (50) and Andrea Sachs (25!) would be marrying at the end of this month. We have heard through the grapevine that La Priestly’s impending deportation to the United Kingdom has to do everything with this. One wonders what the INS has to say about this. 

* * *

**first: Miranda. **

\- As you are aware, the news of your impending deportation has made this whole marriage a suspect business. Are you willing to withdraw your filing for marriage?  
_No_.  
\- Alright. Then we will go over the Stokes interview. Camera’s rolling. How and where did you meet?  
At work. Shelly from HR had been in a particular ironic mood and sent up a girl with horrendous shoes. That girl turned out to be Andrea.  
\- How did you two get together?  
I decided to kiss her on the ugliest couch in the world.   
\- Who gets up first? At what time?  
I do, at six thirty. Andrea whenever she deigns to join the land of the waking.   
\- Can you tell me an exact hour, ma’am?  
No. Some people have to work early.   
\- Fine. Where do you go out to eat?  
Last night, we went to Le Bernardin.  
\- Do you have pets?__  
We__ do not. ____I have a St. Bernard named Patricia.   
\- Who walks it?   
My second assistant.   
\- Have you met your spouse's family?  
Unfortunately, I have.  
\- When and where was the last time you were intimate?  
I will not have sordid details of my marriage spill into the tabloids.  
\- Understood.  
I - Fine… Last night. In the bathrooms of Le Bernardin. 

…

* * *

**second: Andrea. **  
\- As you are aware, the news of your spouse’s impending deportation has made this whole marriage a suspect business. Are you willing to withdraw your filing for marriage?  
No.  
\- Alright. Then we will go over the Stokes interview. Camera’s rolling. How and where did you meet?  
At work, Runway. She scared the living daylights out of me during my interview.   
\- How did you two get together?  
She told me she wanted to kiss me.   
\- Who gets up first? At what time?  
Miranda. Somewhere after six.   
\- Where do you go out to eat?  
Um, it depends, but last night we went to Le Bernardin.   
\- Do you have pets?  
Miranda has a St. Bernard called Patricia.  
\- Who walks it?   
I used to. Now it is my successor at work.   
\- Have you met her family?  
No. She doesn’t um- like talking about it either. She has met mine, however. It did not go … well.   
\- When and where was the last time you were intimate?  
Wha? - um, I can’t. Miranda will kill me. And you. And everyone else on this planet.  
\- She has made that quite clear. Again, when and where was the last time you were intimate?   
Er - in a bathroom stall at Le Bernardin. 

…

* * *

fin.


End file.
